Streaking Is Dumb As Hell

I knew that running up naked to a group of Massachusetts locals drinking beers on their porch at night had the potential to be awkward, but I still didn't get the reception I hoped for. The Cambridge natives failed to realize I wasn't a deviant sex criminal exposing myself for jollies, but rather a college student participating in the time-honored tradition of streaking. Standing there naked and covering my shame, the subtle nuances distinguishing streaking and indecent exposure were starting to blur for me, too. Just moments before, I'd run away from a group of Cambridge police officers.

I had a choice to make. Did I run further into the night to try to find more fun-loving strangers, or did I risk arrest by sneaking back onto campus? Neither path was looking promising. Streaking was suddenly way less fun than it had been earlier that night.

I was in a pickle with my pickle out.

Streaking first became popular across US college campuses in 1960s and 70s. At my alma mater, Harvard, the tradition of streaking dates back even further. Although the historical record is inexact, there appears to be some evidence that as a student, Charles Adams, son of President John Adams, was disciplined for getting drunk and running naked around Harvard Yard in 1788.

In 1804, Washington and Lee University senior George William Crump was arrested for leaving the campus and running naked through the adjoining town of Lexington, Virginia. Crump's honor, however, was restored when Robert E. Lee himself sanctioned streaking as a "rite of passage" for college gentlemen. (Crump went on to become a US congressman.)

Lee, of all people, seemed to get that it could be funny, but standing there naked in front of strangers, I knew that my nudity was not funny. I thought it had been when I first got naked earlier in the night at a party with the cross-country team—but maybe I was wrong about that, too.

We were at an afterparty following the hazing of the new freshmen. I was a sophomore runner on the team who hadn't distinguished myself in races, but had distinguished myself as someone very willing to get naked. I'd earned this reputation when I was hazed the previous year: Before the seniors had finished saying "naked obstacle course," I had already taken my clothes off. My eagerness stemmed from a desire for approval—but paradoxically, being too willing to get naked took all of the fun out of hazing.

Now the new freshmen were getting hazed, and I was jealous of the attention they were getting. I know my inability to distinguish between negative and positive attention doesn't speak well for my sense of self-worth, but so it goes.

As the party heated up, a senior bellowed out a dare: "Hey freshmen, I challenge you to go streak in the Quad Yard." The frosh demurred. Nobody stepped forward. Seeing an opportunity for attention, I began stripping. If you ever feel like a night isn't about you and you want it to be, getting naked works pretty well as a magnet for eyeballs.

"I'll do it!" I said, pulling my clothes off and throwing them into a pile in the middle of the dance floor. Naked, I ran out the front door.

It was around midnight when I began running naked laps around the Quad Yard. A small contingent from the party had come out to watch. By the second lap, passersby had begun to glob on and gawk. As I came around for my third lap, I noticed something unexpected: flashlights.

That's weird, I thought, why do people have flashlights? Is it to get a better look at my streaking antics? Flattered, I ran toward the beams, like a moth to a flame. Just as the source of one of the beams began to run toward me, it dawned on me that something was wrong.

"COPS!" a college-aged voice shouted into the night. I tried to stop my forward momentum as quickly as possible, resulting in my naked ass falling hard onto the grass. I shot up and began sprinting the other way. A few moments later, a friend of mine on the team, Connor, caught up to me.

"Dude… the cops… are here," he said between puffs of breath.

"Dude… I know… what should… I do?" I spat back.

"They said… if they… catch someone… streaking… they'll arrest them… and they'll… have to register… as… a sex offender."

"What?!"

Streaking is funny until it isn't, and hearing "sex offender" was a great way to make it not fun real fast.

I hit the edge of campus and kept running, down a street and off into the Cambridge night, which is how I found myself standing in front of the locals.

"Hey, weirdo, want me to call the cops?"

It was clear civilians wouldn't understand my plight. I ran again, but now weaved back toward campus. I snuck along in the shadows of buildings and crept behind rows of shrubbery, at last finding a hiding spot in a large bush on the edge of a pedestrian walkway. If someone came across me naked and hiding in a bush, it was going to be hard to pass this off as a harmless college tradition. I waited, praying I'd see someone I knew and wouldn't be seen by someone I didn't. After about 30 minutes, I saw Devon, an upperclassman on the team and the host of the party. He was walking back toward the festivities, a box of beer in each hand. I whisper-yelled to get his attention and implored him to go get me some clothes.

Thirty minutes later, I was still waiting. I'd now been naked hiding in a bush as co-eds walked past me for the better part of an hour. I tortured myself with thoughts of how thoroughly ruined my life would be if I had to register as a sex offender for this stupid ploy for attention. Certainly people had been forced to register as sex offenders for far less. A possible saving grace was that since my penis was as flaccid as a worm in a jar of melatonin, if I was spotted, I hoped it would at least be clear that I wasn't masturbating. A naked guy masturbating in a bush is way worse than a naked guy just shivering in a bush, right?

At last, I saw someone I recognized, another sophomore on the team named Patrick. He was walking around holding a pile of clothes given to him by Devon. He handed me the garments. I put them on, relieved.

I was too spooked to return to the party. I figured the police had an all-points bulletin out for my arrest. I ran back to my dorm. Once inside, I decided I needed to disguise myself. I had a beard. I shaved it. I had long hair. I shaved it too. I usually sleep naked, but that night I slept fully clothed.

Follow Nate Dern on Twitter.